Sansom, more childlike than Miss Wisteria, what else could he do, once outside and alone, but describe
a circle, the zero of his nothingness? Joel slipped down from the tree; he had not made the top, but it did
not matter, for he knew who he was, he knew that he was strong.
He puzzled out the rest of the way back to the Landing the best way he could. Randolph did not
say a word. Twice he fell down, and sat there on the ground, solemn and baby-eyed, until Joel helped
him up. Another time he walked straight into an old stump: after that, Joel took hold of his coat-tail and
steered him.
Long, like a cathedral aisle, and weighted with murky leaf-light, a path appeared, then a
landmark: Toby, Killed by the Cat. Passing the moon tree, beneath which Jesus Fever was buried, no
sign marking his grave, they came upon the Landing from the rear, and entered the garden.
A ridiculous scene presented itself: Zoo, crouched near the broken columns, was tugging at the
slave-bell, trying, it seemed, to uproot it, and Amy, her hair disarranged and dirt streaking her face like
war paint, paced back and forth, directing Zoo’s efforts. «Lift it, stupid, lift it. . . why, any child!. . . now
try again.» Then she saw Randolph; her face contorted, a tick started in her cheek, and she shouted at
him: «Don’t think you’re going to stop me because you’re not; you don’t own everything; it’s just as much
mine as it is yours and more so if the truth were known, and I’m going to do just what I please; you leave
me alone, Randolph, or I’m going to do something to you. I’ll go to the sheriff, I’ll travel around the
country, I’ll make speeches. You don’t think I will, but I will, I will. . .»
Randolph did not look at her, but went on across the garden quite as if he had no idea she was
there, and she ran after him, pulling at his sleeve, pleading now: «Let me have it, Randolph, please. Oh, I
was so good, I did just what you told me: I said they’d gone away, I said they’d gone off on a long
squirrel hunt; I wore my nice grey dress, Randolph, and made little tea-cakes, and the house was so
clean, and really she liked me, Randolph, she said she did, and she told me about this store in New
Orleans where I could sell my girandoles and the bell and the mirror in the hall: you aren’t listening,
Randolph!» She followed him into the house.
As soon as she was gone, Zoo spit vindictively on the bell, and gave it such a kick it overturned
with a mighty bong. «Ain’t nobody gonna pay cash-money for that piece-a mess. She plumb outa sense,
the one done told Miss Amy any such of a thing.»
Joel tapped the bell like a tomtom. «Who was it that told her?»
«Was. . . I don’t know who.» And it was as if Zoo walked away while standing still; her voice,
when she spoke again, seemed slowed down, distant: «Was some lady from New Orleans. . . had a ugly
little child what wore a machine in her ear: was a little deaf child. I don’t know. They went away.»
«My cousin Louise, she’s deaf,» said Joel, thinking how he used to hide her hearing aid, of how
mean he’d been to her: the times he’d made that kid cry! He wished he had a penny. But when he saw
her again, why, he’d be so kind; he’d talk real loud so that she could hear every word, and he’d play
those card games with her. Still, it would be fun to make her mad. Just once. But Ellen had never
answered his letters. The hell with her. He didn’t care any more. His own bloodkin. And she’d made so
many promises. And she’d said she loved him. But she forgot. All right, so had he, sure, you forget, o.k.,
who cares? And she’d said she loved him. «Zoo. . .» he said, and looked up in time to see her retreating
through the arbor-vitae hedge, which shivered, and was still.
A sound, as if the bell had suddenly tolled, and the shape of loneliness, greenly iridescent, whitely
indefinite, seemed to rise from the garden, and Joel, as though following a kite, bent back his head:
clouds were coming over the sun: he waited for them to pass, thinking that when they had, when he
looked back, some magic would have taken place: perhaps he would find himself sitting on the curb of
St. Deval Street, or studying next week’s attractions outside the Nemo: why not? it was possible, for
everywhere the sky is the same and it is down that things are different. The clouds traveled slower than a
clock’s hands, and, as he waited, became thunder-dark, became John Brown and horrid boys in panama
hats and the Cloud Hotel and Idabel’s old hound, and when they were gone, Mr. Sansom was the sun.
He looked down. No magic had happened; yet something had happened; or was about to. And he sat
numb with apprehension. Before him stood a rose stalk throwing shadow like a sundial: an hour traced
itself, another, the line of dark dissolved, all the garden began to mingle, move.
It was as if he had been counting in his head and, arriving at a number, decided through certain
intuitions, thought: now. For, quite abruptly, he stood up and raised his eyes level with the Landing’s
windows.
His mind was absolutely clear. He was like a camera waiting for its subject to enter focus. The
wall yellowed in the meticulous setting of the October sun, and the windows were rippling mirrors of
cold, seasonal color. Beyond one, someone was watching him. All of him was dumb except his eyes.
They knew. And it was Randolph’s window. Gradually the blinding sunset drained from the glass,
darkened, and it was as if snow were falling there, flakes shaping snow-eyes, hair: a face trembled like a
white beautiful moth, smiled. She beckoned to him, shining and silver, and he knew he must go: unafraid,
not hesitating, he paused only at the garden’s edge where, as though he’d forgotten something, he
stopped and looked back at the bloomless, descending blue, at the boy he had left behind.
New Orleans-born TRUMAN CAPOTE achieved international success at the age of
twenty-three with the publication of this brilliant novel. Two of his works, THE GRASS HARP and
HOUSE OF FLOWERS, became Broadway productions and his bestselling novel, BREAKFAST AT
TIFFANY’S, a major motion picture. The hardcover editions of Mr. Capote’s books are published by
Random House.
Scan Notes, v3.0:Proofed carefully against DT, italics and special characters intact. In many places,
Capote intentionally misspells items to stay in the Southern Idiom. In other places, I wasn’t sure if
apparent mistakes in the DT were actual mistakes or intentional (such as «hold anythingon his stomach»
instead of «in» at the beginning of Chapter 9, for example). Therefore, the DT was reproduced as exactly
as possible here. In addition, his punctuation is a bit screwy, but again, it matches the DT.
